Come on, Jack. Wrap it up.
“Sure,” said K.K., his hands still up. “We don’t want any trouble either.”
He turned to get back in the van but stooped as if to tie his shoe laces. Something flashed as he straightened. By the time I realized it was the steely glint of a machete, it was hurtling toward Jack with a sickening whoosh. I gasped as he swerved to avoid it.
Two seconds later, he lurched. A blot of crimson stained his T-shirt and spread over his sleeve. Blood poured in red rivulets down his arm and dropped to the ground from his knuckles. He’d been sliced.
His knees hit the ground with a sickening thud. The rifle slipped from his hand as he clutched his shoulder, trying to stave the flow of blood.
“We don’t want any trouble either,” K.K. repeated. He walked over to Jack and picked up the rifle. Then he placed the sole of his shoe on Jack’s face and slowly, slowly, put his weight on it until Jack fell back under the mounting pressure. “What I want is to get my boots licked, for all the shit you’ve made me trudge through to find you. You see this?” He pointed to the gash across his face. “This is from that Maasai chief who stole my cargo. You know what I did to him? I broke his legs. My men asked me: ‘Why, K.K.? Why not kill the bastard?’” K.K. rubbed the spotty tufts of hair on his head, slanting his head one way, then another, as if listening to voices in his head. “See, that’s something most people don’t grasp. The intricacies of suffering. I suffer when I kill. Killing is easy, like putting out a cigarette butt.”
Jack flinched as K.K. rubbed his heel back and forth on his face.
“But to prolong it . . . ah. To transform it. That’s art. I made art out of that chief. A statement piece. What good is a nomad who can’t wander?” He broke into a spine-chilling gaggle. His men joined in. They stood in a semi-circle over Jack, laughing as they recalled what they’d done to Olonana.
“Fuck you,” Jack spat at K.K. A pool of blood was starting to stain the ground under him.
Get up, Jack. Run! Every fiber of my being screamed. It’s now or never. But I didn’t know if he could get up, or if he could run. All I knew was that with every second that ticked by, we were moving farther and farther away from him.
“Oh my,” said K.K. “There’s no need for that kind of language. You don’t want to lick my shoes? That’s okay.” He dropped the sinister mask of amusement he’d been wearing. He looked like the vulture he was, inside and out. “I’ll just cut your tongue out and polish my shoes with it while you watch. But right now, my goods are leaving, and it’s pissing me off. You—” he snapped at one of his team “—stop the driver. And you two, get the kids. Take the machete. Do it on the train. Slaughter them like the goats they’re hiding out with. The girl too.”
“You touch them and I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” K.K. ground his shoe into Jack’s wound and watched him writhe in the dust. “You can’t even get up.” He patted Jack down and retrieved his wallet. “You’re no good to anyone, Jack Warden.” He read the name off Jack’s driver’s license before throwing it back in his face. “You know why? Because you’re dead, motherfucker.” He pulled the trigger.
For a second, he just stood there, blinking, when nothing happened—no splash of red on his shoes. “Your cock,” he said, pointing the gun at Jack, “has no balls.” He laughed deliriously. “All decoration, no bullets. And you . . . you walked up to us like you owned us. Keh keh keh keh.”
He was still laughing when Jack grabbed the barrel and hit him with the butt of the rifle. K.K. staggered back, holding his nose. Jack shouted something I couldn’t hear, the words eaten up by the growing distance between us.
He surged forward to hit K.K. again when one of his men clamped Jack in a chokehold. It was the guy K.K. had sent to stop the driver.
Fuck. He’d backtracked and come to K.K.’s aid.
Something caught the edge of my eye, and I swore again. I had been so concerned about Jack, I hadn’t noticed that the other two men K.K. dispatched to get the children had climbed on board the moving train. They were hanging on the rungs, a few cars down, and making their way toward us.
Everything was moving way too quickly to process. On the one hand, Jack was being pounded by K.K. while his accomplice held him up. On the other, death was coming for the children, shirts flapping in the wind, machete in hand. My heart raced like it was going to explode. I gripped the edges of the doorframe, my knuckles turning white as I tried to figure out what to do.
“Bahati.” I shook him. He was lying slumped against one of the pens, his body lurching with the motion of the train. “Shit.” He had passed out, and I had no idea if he was going to be okay.
I ran to the open hatch and looked out again. The men were clinging to the sides of the train, proceeding when they had secured a sure footing. Jack was slipping from view. There was something wild and tempestuous in his punches now. He wasn’t just fighting two men, he was fighting the monsters that had taken Lily away from him. He was pouring all his rage and hurt and pain into it. But he was injured, and he held his wounded arm stiffly as they came at him from all sides.
No matter what happens, you stay on the train. You get these kids to Wanza.
I choked back a sob. I had to shut the door and lock it. I had to stop those men from getting to the children.
I slipped my backpack off and pulled on the hatch. It didn’t budge. I put all my muscle into it and tried again.